


a scar in the wind (and blood within)

by aldonza



Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [7]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt Erik (Phantom of the Opera), Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Panic Attacks, Permanent Injury, Pharoga - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Scarification, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sharing a Bed, Trauma Recovery, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: The Turkish countryside was idyllic. For a while, it was everything they had wanted. Until the bandages came off.Sequel to "silver lining in the sky."
Relationships: Darius & The Persian, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574986
Comments: 25
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The follow-up to "silver lining." There will be LOTS of recovery but also lots of #hurt along the way. It won't be easy, but our boys will get to a better place. 
> 
> That said, another tremendous thank you to everyone that's followed the series until now!

Days became weeks, and then months with each rise and fall of the open sun. And Nadir- the former Daroga of Mazandaran, an officer stripped of rank and name- always woke before the dawn, restless and sweating. He’d sit up, heart pounding like a toy drum, and release a breath. He’d chalked it up to nightmares at first, but his dreams were perfectly mundane more often than not, sometimes nonexistent in the night. And yet those nerves would not calm, attacking him when he had no reason to panic at all.

After gathering his breath, he’d turn to Erik. Nadir had expected nightmares to plague the Frenchman more than himself, but that did not seem to be the case. If anything, Erik slept more peacefully than he ever had, perhaps assured that he had nothing left to harm. 

“There are only two rooms,” Nadir had informed Darius that first night in the cottage.

“I’ve told you- I’ll take the room upstairs. You and Erik can share the lower room.”

“There’s only one bed.”

Darius had eyed him rather doubtfully, as if amused that Nadir had said those very words. “I know- I assumed you’d prefer it that way, or have I… misinterpreted the nature of your relationship?”

Darius had seen Nadir in plenty worse states, but that was the first time the (once) daroga had felt his face grow hot. He hadn’t said anything more to Darius then, only remarked that he would check on the sheep. Because now, with no other tasks and distractions in the way, Nadir had to confront the question he’d put off since Abed had first posed it-  _ What is he to you? _

_ A thorn in my side. _

Perhaps that was the most accurate way to describe it. But he could not quite say so anymore. Nadir hovered by Erik’s bedside of his own freewill, content to tend him by the hour, relieved at any sign of recovery he showed. When he tried his hand at anything else- overlooking that flock of sheep, visiting the village yonder, fixing the cracks in the cottage walls- his mind would churn back to where Erik lay. Perhaps it was an obsession, Nadir admitted, this chronic need to check on the Frenchman’s health, as if Erik would die if Nadir so much as looked away.

It made sense then, to sleep by Erik’s side, no barrier between them except the few inches between their heads. Rather than listen to the sounds of wind and critters outside, Nadir would doze to the sounds of Erik’s breaths.

Then when his nerves jostled him awake, Nadir would dress himself and escape to the pastures, strolling along the grass until the sun rose. It was the only thing that put him at peace. At first, he’d thought his gut warning him of something terrible to come. But nothing ever did.

The Turkish countryside was idyllic, and Nadir had never known as much peace as he did then.

The most troubling issues they ran across were sheep refusing to stay still while Darius sheared their wool. But Nadir would glance over his shoulder from time to time, if only to ensure no one had come to make them pay their dues. But he only ever saw Darius or an earthy villager passing through.

And when he fed Erik, the Frenchman would only ask him of the sheep and if Nadir was happy here. Nadir almost envied how vacant his mind seemed.

“I am,” Nadir told him each time, though he was not quite sure.

Erik never spoke of the confession he’d made nor did Nadir bring it up. And still, it drove him mad when he thought of it in his head- had he imagined it all along? He loved Erik, this he could not deny. And quite frankly, he did not care if Erik did not requit. Nadir would guard him regardless. Perhaps he was just one man, but he’d sworn to make up for every cruelty Erik had ever endured, at his own hands and everyone else’s.

And perhaps if he loved Erik enough, the man would finally love himself.

“What will you do when he’s well?” Darius had asked him once.

In truth, Nadir did not know if he could go back to bickering with Erik at every turn, if he could even allow himself to let Erik do anything alone. 

“I’ll make sure he stays well,” he had said.

Darius had said nothing, then. And that night, he’d off-handedly remarked, “You’re too dependent on him, Master. I don’t think it’s healthy.”

“I’m not dependent on him.” He’d glared at his man and the conversation ended there.

But Darius was correct. Darius was always correct, a fact that was beginning to annoy Nadir. He did not remember who he was before the title “Daroga” fell upon his head, did not remember how it felt to live unguarded, to live without thinking the world full of sin, to be something more than another tile in the rosy court. And a part of him, he knew, feared that uncertainty (vulnerability), the very thing that would have gotten him killed as the Daroga of Mazandaran. But he could put his doubts away for Erik, could say Erik needed him more than Nadir himself. Then Nadir could survive another day.

Because he had come to rely on Erik as much as the Frenchman relied on him. Even so, he had no intention to distance himself from Erik. Never again.

Once the purple had faded from Erik’s torso, Nadir began carrying him out, assured that proper rest was indeed speeding up his recovery. And this time, nothing would interrupt. They would watch the sheep together, Erik clinging to Nadir as he named each one (as he had once done with the cats by his apartment).

Nadir could still not tell one lamb apart from the next, but Erik always seemed to know which once was which. Back then, Nadir had told him how “useless” such a skill was. Now, he only praised him on a job well done. 

“Darius could use the extra hands once you’re well,” he’d said.

Erik’s grin fell. “I don’t know if I can offer more than one hand, Daroga.”

He wiggled the fingers of his left, that arm still hanging within a sling. Erik had said nothing of himself since their arrival at the cottage, but then he did.

“Erik used to climb to the highest branch,” he said, a tree in the distance having caught his eye. “He’ll never climb again, will he, Daroga?”

“You’re too old to be climbing trees anyway,” Nadir replied, purposely avoiding the question.

But Erik hadn’t wanted an answer. Perhaps he was unaware he was speaking out loud.

“I can’t run,” he said, as if realizing for the first time that he would never regain the use of his leg. 

He frowned, a shadow of pain in his eyes. “I used to think I could run forever. I think- I deserve this-”

“You don’t  _ deserve _ this,” Nadir scolded. “Don’t be stupid.”

Nadir recalled the butcher’s wheel, its spikes shredding through the bone of the magician’s leg, roaming up until the daroga had stopped it at the thigh. Erik had wanted the wheel to keep going and turn him into a pile of blood and dust (but Nadir had not allowed it). And even now, the memory brought bile to his throat. He felt his grip tense around Erik’s waist, as if the act itself could undo the wheel’s damage to his right leg and the cruel snap to his left.

Erik winced. “I’m sorry, Daroga. You suffered so much for me.” 

Nadir hadn’t meant to scare the Frenchman. Guilty, he said, “I’m not upset with you. It’s all right.”

Erik rested his head in the crook of Nadir’s neck. “But-”

“I’ve said so before- I could never hate you.”

And still thinking himself the greatest burden of burdens, Erik asked, “Why? I made you leave your home. I can’t help you- or Darius- Erik can’t do anything until you help him. He’s a burden, and he repays you with nothing.”

“Because there is nothing to repay. I wanted to come here- you didn’t make me, don’t be so arrogant. And I hated it in court anyway.”

Then, rather fiercely, Nadir said, “My Erik is very dear to me. Does that satisfy your question?”

Erik may have shaken his head, but Nadir had begun carrying him back by then. He did not like listening to these doubts, not when Erik asked in Tehran, and certainly not when he asked here.

But Erik’s comments had bothered Nadir nonetheless-- true, he had considered the possibility that perhaps Erik would never use his left arm again (or his legs for that matter) but that did not mean he believed it. Perhaps Erik was simply growing sick of depending on Nadir for every little thing (and simply did not know it yet). Nadir couldn’t deny the fact that Erik could not even use a chamber pot without his help. Perhaps a hint of the old Erik remained and he was finally itching to return after so long hiding from the torment and humiliation of his new shell.

The next day, Nadir left their cottage with a healthy lamb. If Darius thought what he did was a waste, then so be it.

* * *

Nadir returned with a potter’s wheel and piles of clay. He brought Erik out of his (their) room and eased him onto the edge of a wooden chair. Nadir sat behind him, one arm around the Frenchman’s waist and the other against Erik’s right wrist. 

“Have you used this before?” he asked Erik, a foot on the peddle as the wheel spun.

Then he berated himself-- of course Erik had used it before! 

But Erik did not answer. His fingers traced the clay, tips roaming along the surface as he leaned in for a closer look. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Nadir guided his good hand upon the wheel. Erik never uttered a word, but Nadir was more than accustomed to the ticks of his body (however limited its use); his muscles were lax, every inch of his attention drawn the clay in front. Nadir could be sure then that Erik found comfort in the act.

Erik’s right hand had never been as lithe as his left, and bits of clay consistently spilled out, no works of high art produced from their wheel. 

But when Darius returned, he would find a chair covered with clay, sounds of laughter from the washroom down the hall. There, Nadir attempted to pry clay from his thick hair and Erik’s scalp, both unable to keep the rumble in their chests at bay.

* * *

They sat in silence for hours at a time, spinning misshapen pots and vessels and whatever else the wheel could produce.

And eventually, Erik could work the wheel without Nadir’s hand (though the former daroga kept his foot upon the peddle), some semblance of his old skill returning. And as the pots improved, Erik did as well, his skin less grey, his eyes less tired, his bruises cleared. Some confidence, however miniscule, returned to him as he perfected each vase.

Then Nadir would clean his hand and wipe the bits of clay that had splashed onto his face. Erik smiled at him each time, and once, he’d muttered, “I have a nose now, Daroga.”

And Nadir had cupped the Frenchman’s face and laughed, a hearty chortle from his throat. He could not remember the last time Erik had said anything to him in jest, the last time he’d showed any sign of humor. 

Eventually, the bones of Erik’s left leg came together again. Nadir had held the Frenchman in his arms while Darius freed it from its splints. The leg itself was still blotched with bruises and grotesquely thin, no muscle to speak of and too weak to move just yet. But it had healed and they’d celebrated regardless, with platters of food that Erik barely touched.

They’d prepared a cane for him, an unassuming stick of wood with a handle curved for grip. While he waited for the numbness to fade from his limb, Erik held it in his right hand and trembled.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, something anxious in his gaze, “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Nadir assured him, resting a palm upon his frame. “When you’re ready, I know you can.”

And perhaps his smile convinced Erik to try, if nothing else. Nadir holding his elbow, Erik pushed himself to his feet, the cane at his side. He staggered, nearly toppling after the first step. But Nadir kept himself in front, close enough to brace the Frenchman’s fall. 

“You can,” he told Erik, pounding the mantra in.

After that, Erik took to walking once more, dragging himself about the house with a cane, Nadir at his heels, ever ready to catch him should he fall. But Erik never did, and soon, he began accompanying Nadir on his morning strolls. Nadir’s nerves did not act up as much then, that unfortunate anxiety replaced with a cautious hope.

Because as the strength returned to Erik’s left leg, everything else seemed to fall back in place. For a time, life in the cottage was everything they had hoped freedom would be. They were healing and all would be well.

Until the rest of the bandages came off.

* * *

“Does it still hurt?” Nadir asked him.

Erik shook his head, fingers groping the edge of the tub as Nadir touched his chest. His ribs ached at night, when the chill was strong, but they no longer bothered him when he breathed, did not weigh him down with burning stings. 

“And here?” Nadir said.

He shook his head again. Darius (not the physician, because the old man was in Persia and they were no longer there) had said he did not need the dressings anymore, that the stitches could come out. But Nadir had wanted to know if he still hurt.

Erik supposed he didn’t. He did not quite remember how it felt not to hurt. But he’d wanted to please Nadir, though some fear nagged at the back of his mind (that perhaps once he no longer hurt, Nadir would leave him alone, and Erik did not know if he could stand being alone again).

But he did not want to upset Nadir, did not want to see the panic in his green eyes or the sorrow in his brow.  _ Erik is well, _ he wished to say,  _ Erik is well. _

Nadir pulled his robes down, warm fingers brushing bits of exposed skin- and Erik wished he could lean into his touch again. Then ordering him to relax (for Nadir always sounded like he was instructing when he was coaxing, this Erik had learned), Nadir peeled away the gauze layer by layer. 

When the air touched his skin, Erik sighed, the bandages crumpling on the floor at their feet. He did not quite want to look at what had become of him, but he felt that he should (felt that Erik should), that he could not hide from the pain anymore.

“It’s all right, Erik, it’s all right,” Nadir whispered beside him.

He adjusted Erik’s sling, then placed a hand behind his back. Nadir helped him stand up, and together, they limped to the mirror on the wall, a crooked piece of cracking glass. And Erik was-

Staring at Erik.

He was staring at Erik. Himself, yes.

“Erik?”

Nadir was holding him, fingers trying to block his lower rib from view.

Erik’s eyes were on his feet, on the awkward stump of his right foot and the gnarled toes of his left, veins blue under paper skin. The gaze came up, gliding past twigs that passed for legs and the scar on his hip. White streaks muddled his middle, etches and pocks that splashed from stomach to collar.

“Erik?”

Himself. He was not bleeding. Those punctures and cuts had since healed, but he felt them then, felt the burns and steel and the sensation of wood piercing flesh. The scars bit his shoulders, eating skin until his body was thoroughly marked, no inch that still belonged to him. More scar than skin.

He did not remember these scars, did not remember how much they had hurt. The marks coiled across his ribs, thick furrows that clung to flesh, tissue that would never be his again. On his arms. Thighs and legs. Angry bumps on his shoulder- a splotch of color clamped in bone- reminders of teeth in blood.

He could scratch them out, but that would only leave him with chunks of uneven flesh, too many patches of ruined skin to lose. His face stared back, dotted with thin scars, a jagged line slicing from temple to jaw. But the cavity of his non-existent nose, the sunken eyes, and strands of loose black hair (some tips now white)-- they could only belong to him. They were the only features he could recognize.

Nadir was still saying his name.

He- Erik- could not quite hear. He forced Nadir’s thumb away. Then he brought his own hand to where it’d been, the crunched scars along his lower rib. He did not remember any knife coming there, not from Norrson nor-

He recalled a burn in the stone hut.

His breath was tight, throat closed with smoke. 

“You’re shaking-”

He could not keep his finger still as they traced the edge of each puckered line. They were symbols, characters pieced together to form a single word:

**Murderer.**

And he remembered- an aging woman (Abed’s mother) clinging to his cloak, cursing him for the blood he’d shed. A hundred more mothers groped and cursed at him for the sons he’d killed, a thousand scars for a thousand sins. And Abed- 

Abed weeping from behind the glass, bloodied hands too late to crack the walls. 

He fell.

He slipped. 

And Erik watched him die.

Norrson grinned in the mirror, a whispered, “murderer” on his lips.

“Erik!” Nadir cried, “breathe, breathe-”

Nadir’s hand was on his back. They were on the floor, and he was heaving in Nadir’s arms, pushing each breath out as Nadir held him tight. But Erik could not stand back up.

* * *

Nadir dug a hand into his hair and nearly pulled a clump of black out. He should have kept the bandage on Erik’s rib, should have found some way to keep the brand from his sight. Some part of him had been stupid enough to believe Erik already knew of the brand, that he would not be self-aware enough to make sense of these new scars.

“I want to see myself,” Erik had told him (pleaded with him), and Nadir had dumbly indulged.

It was best that they confronted it together. But he should have waited. Perhaps a year, then another. Let Erik recover his wits first, for a brightness in mood was not a sign of a healing mind. It never had been.

_ Damn it. _

Now he’d put Erik to bed again, the Frenchman refusing to speak. He’d refused to leave the cottage or take his meals. And only nodded when Nadir asked if he’d like to rest.

Once assured Erik had fallen asleep, Nadir slipped out to find Darius touching up the stable. One look at his face was all it took for Darius to ask, “What happened, Master?”

And kicking hay aside, Nadir told him.

“What will you do now?” Darius asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Darius pursed his lips. “Erik has been through more than any man should bear. If he’s made it until now, I don’t think this will set him back for long.”

“And if it does? He hasn’t been like this since we found him at the Sultana’s hut.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to care for him as you did then. I can’t claim to know how a man’s mind works.”

Nadir laughed, dry. “Ah, if you even have no solution, then I’ve truly ruined what progress we made.”

He did not pay much mind to the rest of Darius’ reassurances, but Nadir knew he had no choice but to do what his man said. He could attempt to help Erik stand once more or leave him to break, and he’d already swore to never let the latter happen again. 

The sky turned pink. And when he returned to their bedroom, Erik was gone, the cane missing as well.

Then it was as if the Earth swallowed Nadir whole, pulling back until there was nothing left but black.

* * *

Murderer, murderer, murderer.

They chanted the word in his head, by his ear, by Erik’s ear. He stumbled through the woods, forcing the cane to drag his foot onward. 

_ “Monsieur, stop!” the boy cried, “what about-” _

He ignored the boy. He ignored them all. Norrson pushed him on, a rough hand against his back, fingers twisting into his sliding sling.

_ “Go on, monster, go on,” he teased, “who else can you kill?” _

He did not want to kill anyone else. Abed was around the tree, but when Erik reached him, he’d disappeared. As had the boy, and Norrson. It was only him and-

The cane slipped.

He tumbled into the grass, rolling through twigs and dirt until he stopped by a pile of rocks, pieces slicing into the skin of his back.  _ This! _ he thought,  _ this! _

He- Erik- crawled forward. He found the sharpest rock he saw, coiled his fingers around it, and thought he could remove the murderer from his soul. He did not wish to be Erik anymore, nor the boy, nor anyone else.

He pulled his shirt up, tucking the edge between his teeth. Then shoulder throbbing (the sling shifted), he dug the rock into the word upon his ribs, pushing in until blood came out. The pain seized him, bursting out as he scratched the lines away. Once, twice, thrice-

_ What about Nadir? The boy had asked. _

He dashed the rock against his skin once more.

Nadir was better off without him, without this burden, the murderer who could not stop. He could think of no reason to keep him- Erik- after he’d destroyed so much of what Nadir had. Nadir was good to him, as no one had ever been, and Erik always repaid him by making things worse.

But if he was no longer Erik (no longer the murderer), Nadir would be free of him. Everyone would be free of him.

He smelled blood, felt it spill between the cracks of his fingers and onto grass.

His head was on the ground, the rock still clutched in his hand. He tried to move it up again, to break it against that damning word- but he could not. He lay weeping, wondering why he did not have the courage to make it end. 

“You’re here.”

Jade eyes blocked the leaves above. Nadir. His eyes bloodshot, mouth drawn tight in pain. 

“What did you do?” Nadir whispered, prying the rock from that hand, “Erik, what did you do?”

He had done so much- he remembered- so much that he could not take back. And if he could- go back and undo it all, he would, he would let them break his legs a thousand times over, crush his arms until they were powder, and gouge his eyes out so he had nothing left- if it meant those deaths could be undone. 

But he could not speak. He only gulped, watching Nadir with wet eyes.

The rock was stained red, blood smearing onto Nadir’s palm. Nadir threw it away, thrusting it into the distant grass, his arm still trembling when he turned back. Nadir touched the word-  _ murderer _ \- fingers pressing against the gathering blood. 

“I thought I lost you,” Nadir said, pulling him into his arms, “I thought I lost you again.”

And there were tears upon Erik’s face, not his own. Nadir wept as he held him, arms tight around his waist, chin atop his brow. 

“Stop bleeding,” Nadir begged through his breaths, “please, Erik, stop bleeding, please. Please.”

But all Erik could do was bleed. He was good for nothing else.

* * *

Unwilling to cast Erik another glance, Nadir had carried him back to the cottage and settled him in an armchair. He’d drawn water into a basin and used a rag to clean the blood along Erik’s chest, dabbing away until the Frenchman no longer looked like someone had taken a knife to his ribs. The skin was raw around the brand, peeling off and breaking flesh. But that terrible word- murderer- remained, etched so deep that all the new cuts had done was mar the shape.

And still feeling ill, Nadir washed the blood from Erik’s back, a multitude of cuts and scrapes that hurt to look upon. It hurt Nadir- burned him from the inside out- to look upon these new wounds.

And Erik refused to look at him as well. The man kept his head bowed, eyes upon his feet, and silent save the occasional drip of his tears. But his breath hissed when Nadir pressed into his chest with cotton and salve.

He stretched a strip of gauze around his ribs. 

Then shoulders shaking, Nadir took Erik’s hand in his, careful of its new scratches. His brow touched Erik’s own, and unable to keep silent any longer, he said, “Do you love me? What you said that night- is it true?”

Erik’s lip quivered, but no words came out.

Nadir looked him in the eye. “Is it?”

That thin framed shuddered. Then Erik nodded, what might have been a silent apology on his lips.

“Erik,” Nadir said, winding gauze around the injured palm, “I’d wanted to tell you under better circumstances- I-”

The gauze was too long. Nadir bit the strip off with his teeth. He could not afford to keep this unsaid any longer, could not afford to wait until the next misfortune befell Erik (at his own hand or another’s). Their hours together were beloved, and he needed to treat each one as if it was the last.

Nadir knelt before him, hands on Erik’s shoulders, as firm as he could hold without crushing them below his palms. 

“Erik, if you claim to love me,” he said, “why?”

He did not expect Erik to speak.

“Because I tend your wounds? Because I didn’t want to see you die? Did you forget that it was  _ I _ who brought you to Mazandaran, it was I who let you go to Mohammerah”-  _ it was I who blamed you for Abed’s death _ \- “If anything, you should hate me.”

Erik shook his head, trying to protest these accusations. 

“Then why, Erik?” he demanded, “Because I am myself, because I’m Nadir?”

Silence.

And then the shaking stopped. The look in Erik’s eyes was all the answer he needed.

“If you truly care for me,” Nadir said, “swear to me, swear to me that you will never harm the man I love.”

He removed his hands from Erik’s shoulders, letting them come to hold the Frenchman’s jaw.

“I love you,” Nadir told him, enunciating each word so Erik had no room for doubt.

The Frenchman’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. His Adam's apple floated, those eyes frozen on Nadir’s face. Every inch of him had clammed up.

“I love you,” Nadir said again. His fingers stretched to brush away the tears flowing down the Frenchman’s face, its features contorted in disbelief.

Then Nadir smiled, forcing a grin in spite of the growing wetness in his eyes. “I love the good man you’re trying to be- that you always could have been. I love your strength, your passions, and even your insufferable quips.”

“I’ve forgiven you,” he went on, “for everything else, just as you’ve forgiven me. All I want is to start over- together.”

He took that bandaged hand and kissed its palm. Returning it to Erik’s side, he bent forward and pressed his lips to the bandages around his chest, right above the Sultana’s bitter brand.

“I love you,” he whispered, “I love you as I’ve loved no one else before-”

He kissed the gauze again, the brush of lips on cotton. “When you look upon these scars, think of my mouth, my caress, my-”

He pressed another kiss in, and looked up, meeting amber eyes widened to bursting flames. 

“My Erik.”

Then he stood, held Erik to his chest, and said by his ear, “I won’t forgive you if you hurt my Erik, if you dare cover my kisses with blood.”

And against him, Erik wept, large gasping sobs he could no longer hold in. One hand clutched at Nadir’s shirt, as if he would drown should the other man let go. But Nadir held on, upright as Erik- scars and tears and blood- melted into him. And blinking back the sting in his eye, Nadir kissed him on the brow. Again.

Again. And again.

As he should have in Tehran, as he should have before he ran away, before he let the doubt take hold, before he abandoned Erik over some cowardly thought. 

Nadir stayed this time. And he refused to allow himself an inkling of regret-- he had told Erik he loved him. And he was true to his word.

Clumsily, he kissed away the other man’s tears, salt and water on his lips, Erik’s very face a blur before his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge thank-you to everyone who's supported this series until now! We're getting close to the end of this epilogue, and I hope it's been worth the read.
> 
> There's a small mention of torture (*let's just say that Bandaged Dolls skipped some scenes so it wouldn't feel even more gratuitous), but it's #Comfort the rest of the way!

Nadir awoke to the sounds of bleating sheep, the bounce of a bell rousing him from a dreamless nap and back to the world of grass and sky. He rubbed his eyes, squinting at the sun above, its rays poking between the web of leaves in the branch above. He sat up, sour in the neck, and rested against the tree he’d slept under. Darius and his flock were roaming the pastures, not far ahead.

And Erik was at the edge of that pasture, seated beside his cane as he fondled the lamb in his lap. The bell dangled from a ribbon round the ewe’s neck, indigo on white as the little ball rang. Nadir watched Erik kiss the tip of the creature’s head, for a moment thinking back to the days following his recovery in Tehran. He remembered the cat- Mahin- on Erik’s knees while he tried to cradle her with a broken arm. Nadir had ached watching him then, and he still ached watching him now.

He had changed Erik’s dressings for the past three nights, the Frenchman silently complying with each ministration. The cuts on his back were now scabs, and Nadir was sure they would not scar should he apply salve diligently. But perhaps it made no difference. A few more scratches would hardly stand out against the streaks of raised flesh whipping across Erik’s skin, or the damned brand seared into him by that English wretch. Even so, Nadir could not bear to see more damage done to the man he loved.

The man he loved.

Three nights ago, he’d told Erik just as much. And it had slipped as naturally from his tongue as breath from his lungs. He could still taste remnants of Erik’s blood on his lips, the shape of the Sultana’s brand, and every curve. And he would say the same thing if he could redo that night.

Nadir’s only regret was not saying it sooner. He loved him, and he knew Erik loved him back. (Then what was it they were hiding from?)

Erik hadn’t spoken since that night, since Nadir found him scraping his ribs with that rock. He’d wept and trembled, and given himself entirely to Nadir, voice muted with the wind. Perhaps he was too scared to speak, too ashamed to try, too hurt to weep. But Erik showed no more signs of harming himself after. He allowed Nadir to kiss the cuts on his palm and soothe the wound on his chest. He ate when Nadir brought his food. And he was still lying by Nadir’s side when the other man woke.

Nadir hadn’t forced him to speak. He had never been a talkative man himself, and he supposed he would rather have Erik silent than dead. If Erik chose to never speak again, Nadir would resign himself to that as well, content with the memory of his velvet songs.

But Erik did speak this morning, a soft whisper by Nadir’s ear: “I want to see the flock today.”

Nadir hadn't asked why. He’d only said, “All right.”

And now he sat gazing at Erik, a smile finally returning to the Frenchman’s face. Hideous, he supposed, but an ugliness that Nadir found endearing simply because it belonged to Erik.  _ Handsome even, _ he thought,  _ because I love you.  _

“Daroga,” Erik said, turning around at last, the second thing he’d uttered all day, “I shall never eat lamb again.”

“Never?”

The Frenchman shook his head. “It would be too cruel of Erik- of, of me.”

And he looked to the lamb with such sadness that Nadir almost thought Darius had promised that very ewe for lunch. 

“I’m not sure if I can do the same, Erik,” Nadir told him, carefully shaping a taunt.

“It’s all right- I’ll look away.” Then he sighed. “The poor, unhappy things.”

Nadir made his way to Erik then, and felt his arms loop over the other man’s chest. He held on, Erik’s shoulders against his frame. And Erik did not pull away.

* * *

At dawn, Nadir wandered the pastures alone. In the evenings, he strolled through the woods with Erik, the cane bumping against his shoe, the Frenchman’s hip close enough to slip over Nadir’s own. Erik was slow, but his pace improved each night, the cane no longer so foreign in his grip. But Nadir kept a steady eye on him regardless, sure to grab his arm when there was a patch of ground too rough.

Darius said the sling could come off. Erik’s shoulder- what remained of his shoulder- had healed enough, but the alternative was letting his left arm dangle like a bent hinge. A little longer, Nadir had argued, a little longer.

Once, when Erik had tripped over a root, Nadir threw himself in the grass to shield his fall. They landed in a light ditch together and despite Erik’s scattered apologies, Nadir had laughed. And perhaps his laugh allowed Erik to laugh too.

Then still lying atop his chest, Erik glanced at where they’d fallen. 

“The major general dug a hole like this once,” he’d said, as if recounting a dream to Nadir, “it was deep. So Erik could stand inside.”

Nadir wrapped a hand over Erik’s cane, something throbbing in his throat.

“They threw stones at Erik- one hit him here.” The Frenchman tapped his collar. “Erik doesn’t remember where else- he- I, was bleeding all over.”

He grinned. “I was so ugly, Daroga.”

“And then what?” Nadir said, more raspy than he intended.

“They put the dirt back in.”

Norrson had buried him alive. And then evidently dug him out later to break him anew. Nadir wanted to know if this was before the beatings, the glass in his feet, the wax in his wounds, the ruin of his ribs, the brand in his back. But he only had one thought, the notion of murdering Norrson should the Englishman ever rear his head again. 

“Are you mad at me, Daroga?”

Erik lay his head flat against Nadir’s ribs, no doubt listening to the chugging of his heart. “Don’t be upset, Daroga. It’s all over- I’m here now.”

“I know.” And Nadir wrapped an arm around him, clinging tight.

But that night, he dreamt, everything he’d kept at bay coming in at once. Nadir saw the Sultana in his sleep, her grin in place of Norrson’s own, Abed’s head rolling at their feet. And he would dream of waking, only to run up to where Darius slept. But in his bed, he found his father in place of his man. His face was exactly as Nadir remembered: sallow, cold, and grey at its temples. 

Then he was awake. And in a sweat, Nadir stumbled to the washroom and inspected his drowsy face. He looked more like his father each day.

His father, whose name he failed.

It was the first of many nights that these dreams plagued him. Nadir had nightmares before, but they rarely left him so shaken. And perhaps a part of him was relieved that the dreams finally came, for he had been waiting for their attack (perhaps because he did not think himself deserving of peace).

The dreams came in pieces. Nasser’s face blended with Abed’s. Nadir was again the Daroga of Mazandaran. Sometimes he found himself back under the dungeon’s lash, Darius having never come. Often, he dreamt of Erik on his knees, eyes plucked out and stabbed with pikes. He saw Erik back at the English camp- and this time, Norrson did not allow the Persians in. He was only a body by the time Nadir arrived, a corpse stitched with wounds and burnt so badly not a trace of Erik remained.

Nadir himself gagged Erik in the stone hut, egged on by the Sultana’s taunts. At her command, he did worse and worse. It made him ill, even in sleep, but he never refused an order. He was again beating Erik before the Shah- and this time, he did not stop. He left Erik bleeding out in the Russian snow, left him to die, stripped and battered to the bone. 

And each time, Erik whispered to him, “I love you.”

And each time- when Nadir finally awoke- he would turn to Erik’s sleeping face and trace a knuckle over his brow. Only when he was assured that Erik was fine would Nadir leave. Sleeping left him tired, and waking left him feeling a shell of himself.

When the nightmares were particularly bad, he took some pains to avoid Erik. Nadir could not look at him without thinking of the things he did in those dreams. Violent, terrible things. He thought of the chamber of mirrors-- once or twice, he’d dreamt of himself trapped within instead, Erik’s laughter bouncing to and fro. If it sickened him to think of what he did to Erik in his dreams, then what Erik did to him in them was even worse. 

“Have you been resting well?” Darius had asked as they helped the sheep graze.

“Why do you ask?”

“You look haggard, Master.” To the point, as always.

But Nadir knew his man to be correct. It was laughable to hear Darius call him ‘master’ now, when they were by all means equal (and it was Nadir who owed his man more than money could pay). 

“I’ve been thinking,” Nadir had said, “this companionship I have with Erik-”

“Companionship? Is that what you call it?”

_ “Darius.” _

And a smirk still in his otherwise stoic eyes, Darius relented and let Nadir speak on.

“I no longer know what it’s based on. I was… not fond of him at first, you see.”

He had loathed Erik at first. To say he despised the magician would not be incorrect, Nadir knew, and even that word was too light. 

“I was not terribly kind to him- not until he became too weak to put on any airs.”

Part of the flock had wandered too far then, and when Darius went to rein them back in, Nadir followed. Darius hadn’t seemed to listen to a word he said, but Nadir felt the need to tell him regardless, if only to alleviate some of the guilt.

“Does that make me a villain?” Nadir said, “that I only show him affection when he’s in pain?”

_ Do I love the man or the broken man? _

“Perhaps I enjoyed seeing him brought down to earth, fancied watching him bleed.”

Darius whistled for an ewe’s attention. Then turning to Nadir, he said, “Do you really believe a word you’ve told me, Master?”

“I-”

Darius waited, but Nadir could not answer.

“If you were inclined to such perversions,” Darius said, “then we would never have gone to such lengths to heal him. It’s far more difficult to keep Erik from harm than to inflict harm upon him, no?”

And without waiting for Nadir’s reply, Darius guided his sheep back the way they came. He had left Nadir standing in the pasture, alone with his doubts, and nothing more to say, Nadir returned to the cottage. Erik was waiting by the pottery wheel, as he always did. But Nadir walked past him, afraid to gaze upon his amber eyes.

* * *

Some nights later, Nadir was roused awake. Erik’s cold fingers were upon his spine, gently roaming over the scars that new daroga’s lash had left. But Nadir did not turn to face him despite the concerned mumbles of “Daroga?”

He remained where he lay, back to Erik, something wet seeping into the pillow beneath his head. Tears. He pried the blanket off, the fabric sticking to sweat-slicked skin. And heart juggling behind his bones, Nadir shuddered. 

“Daroga, did you have a bad dream?”

He nodded, though he doubted Erik could see. 

“You can tell Erik.”

_ It was about you, _ he wished to say,  _ I hurt you and you hurt me. _ But that was not the reason for his tears. And he was tired, winded from vicious dreams and sleepless nights. He did not have the strength to pretend all was well, not anymore.

“I saw Namvar,” he muttered, “I saw him back in my residence- in Mazandaran.”

“Namvar?” Erik repeated, testing the word on his tongue.

“He was my brother.” The tears were still slipping. Nadir could not bother to rub them away. “My twin.”

And the face was as he remembered in that dream- a boy not yet ten, with jade eyes and brows as unruly as his jet hair, something mischievous in his grin.

“He died a long time ago. That year, disease ravaged my family- it took my mother, my younger brother, and Namvar. They said it was because the Daroga- my father- was cursed, cursed by the blood of all those he’d sent to their deaths.”

Erik’s hand had found its way to his ear. Nadir felt a bony finger touch his wet cheek.

“Namvar was my father’s favorite. He wasn’t like me- he was bright, sharp- you would have liked him- even at that age, he had an appetite for pranks… he should have been the Daroga, not me.”

And these words, he realized, Nadir had never let out loud before. He hadn’t spoken of Namvar since his funeral, twenty years ago. He could not remember if he had ever been close to Namvar. But he remembered how his father had wept (the first and last time he saw him weep) and the fear that had snagged at him when he saw his twin’s body in the dirt. It was the same fear that ravaged him now, the fear that he would die without ever having deserved to live.

Erik was silent while Nadir swallowed air, struggling to keep trembles away. Then, bringing his hand to Nadir’s wrist, the Frenchman said, “Abed told me to be still.”

At the mention of the boy’s name, Nadir froze, his tears freezing with. “What-?”

He felt Erik shift behind him, and of his own accord, Nadir sat up. A bit of moonlight fell upon amber eyes, painting an effect not unlike dull gold. Erik’s right hand was holding his own, an icy respite to the clamminess of Nadir’s palm. They sat in bed for a good moment, hand in hand and eye upon eye.

“I was scared, after Mohammerah,” Erik said softly, “I thought I saw him- Norrson- all the time.”

“Erik-”

“Abed would come to my home, and he held my hands.” He felt for Nadir’s palm, fingers touching his wrist. “And he told me none of it was real. Only he was real, Abed was real, and Erik was with him. I-”

Another pinch of palm. “I felt safe, Daroga… and now I’m real, and so are you. Nothing else.”

Nadir had stopped weeping then, but he still felt leftover tears streaking down. He wondered if Erik could see.

And after a gulp, he said, “Did Abed come to you often?”

Yes, he supposed Abed could have. The days after Mohammerah were a blur to him, little more than remnants of color and nerves. The daroga had been tasked with taking care of what Erik could not, this he remembered. He remembered the construction of the greenhouse and paying Abed little mind. Until the night he snapped at the boy. His boy.

“Yes,” Erik answered, “even when I told him not to. He was good, Daroga, so good-”

Those cold fingers coiled over Nadir’s own, and Nadir found himself pressing back. 

“I’ve never met a soul purer, better than his.” A sad smile wove its way through Erik’s words.

Nadir could not disagree. Erik had only stated what they both knew from the start. Even so, it hurt to hear it now after so long in a world without Abed. Clumsy, cowardly, meek. They had called Abed these things so many times, sometimes in fits of rage, sometimes as fond taunts. And the boy had taken it all in stride, for he loved them as he knew they loved him.

“Do you remember,” Nadir said with a huff, “when Abed tried to smoke my pipe?”

Erik chuckled. And it surprised Nadir nonetheless when he did indeed recall. “He thought you wouldn’t notice, but he coughed the whole day.”

“He was never a good liar. And you lied with him.”

“Erik- I- thought I owed him because he mended my socks-”

“He was never good at stitching either.”

“No, no he wasn’t.”

He heard it, the tears in Erik’s voice, or perhaps it was his own. Nadir hadn’t the heart to hide them, nor did he want Erik to hide his. Then he felt Erik’s brow touch his head, a soft kiss of skin. Nadir leaned into it, for it was real. And in that moment- for once- he felt himself safe. He was bare now, unable to stop stripping the layers of fear away. He needed Erik then, and some part of him sensed the Frenchman knew this better than he. 

“Erik, you don’t have to answer- but I need- I need to know-”

He dreaded asking, but Nadir had to release the words now. These doubts, he needed to quell at last. Against his brow, Erik did not move.

“In Mohammerah,” Nadir said, the words strange in his mouth, “why didn’t you say a word? Was it really for them, his majesty and the Sultana?”

Erik had said it was for the Shah’s sake before. He had told Nadir he could not bring shame to the daroga’s name, nor betrayal to the monarch who had taken him in. And Nadir remembered being stricken with how naive an answer it was (how stupidly simple)- and he’d wondered if Erik’s silence had been worth anything at all.

Now the Frenchman was quiet. Nadir heard a patch of uneven breath before Erik spoke, as if fishing for the right words. 

“Yes, and-” Erik shook his head, as if admitting some tired secret. “-I thought you would be proud of me. So you could say, ‘look, I was not wrong to trust my Erik.’” 

A glint of teeth told him Erik grinned. Nadir lifted his hand, taking Erik’s with, and pressed it to his own chest. He could feel the texture of scars beneath each finger, bumps of jagged skin along Erik’s wrist. And he knew Erik could feel the jut of Nadir’s ribs, past hair and skin, and above the pump of his heart. 

_ I thought you would finally be proud of me, _ had been what the man meant to say. Even if Erik himself did not know.

“I do trust you,” Nadir said, hoping Erik could sense the growing ache he felt.

Erik’s answer was clean, no doubt true, and Nadir supposed that was why it hurt so much to hear. If Erik had simply said so then, if Nadir had the mind to be kinder, if Mohammerah had never come to pass-- perhaps they would still be in Mazandaran now, laughing by the roses and smoking with Kaveh. But perhaps it was meant to be this way, and such regrets had no place in their new home.

“Daroga-” Erik’s hand trailed upwards, brushing past Nadir’s grip and along the side of his bicep, past the healed bullet wound. “You’ve been through so much for me. Erik can never repay you-”

“No.”

Nadir brushed his hand down Erik’s arm, fingers dabbling past every uneven mark. He roamed over that cage of ribs- now so brittle- and landed upon the left shoulder’s scars. 

“You almost lost this arm for me,” Nadir muttered, “you pushed me away when the lion came-”

That moment, perhaps Erik had since forgotten. But Nadir suspected the Frenchman always knew, for he’d rarely lamented the helplessness of his left arm, as if he knew too well the consequences of what he’d done. He would never play the violin again, never paint or sketch or even lift. 

So Nadir told him, “You thought it better that you suffer more than to let anything touch me.”

Erik said nothing, his grin since faded. Perhaps there was a wetness in his gaze, but it was hard to tell in the dark. 

“Never do that again,” Nadir said, “I shan’t forgive you.”

This time, Erik replied. “I can’t promise that, Daroga.”

Nadir chuckled, recalling the whip on his back. “Likewise.”

Erik did not return his chuckle. Instead, he lifted his left hand, fingers curling as light tremors shook his arm. 

“I can move it, a little more now,” Erik said, eyes downcast, “I- I thought you would spend less time with me if you knew.”

Nadir held his hand, careful of its tender bones. He shook his head. “You humbug- I would never love you any less. I would give you my own arm if I could.”

Then, having no more reason to hide the fact, Nadir stated, “You saved him, the man in the lion’s cage. The little Sultana, she never killed him. His name was Vahid.”

Erik did not speak, did not even breathe.

“Darius and I met him in the dungeon where you were held. He said he owed you his life.”

A breath. Then another, something teary in their huffs.

“Did- did you free him?” Erik asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Does he live?”

Nadir deigned to answer. And he saw the bob of Erik’s head, an outline nodding in the dark. He understood. And there was nothing more Nadir could say to him.

“Thank you,” Erik said after what felt like hours, “for telling me, Daroga.”

His right hand rose again, coming to brush the salt from the bone of Nadir’s cheek. 

“You can tell me anything,” Erik told him, “I’ll always be here- I’ll always listen.”

And muffling the lump in his throat, Nadir shut his eyes and heard a croak in his own voice say, “I know.”

* * *

Nadir had since forgotten the existence of seasons. If not for Darius, winter would have crept upon them like a merciless beast. But Darius had stocked up on firewood long beforehand, assured that the stable would provide his flock enough warmth through the cold. It did not snow on Darius’ land, but as he watched the first signs of frost nip at window panes, Nadir wondered when his mind had stopped itself in spring (perhaps because it was towards the end of spring that Abed had died, and all that followed carried them through summer and fall).

His last memory of winter was a lifetime ago, when Erik presented the Sultana with a rose carved from frost, so delicate that it melted upon her palm. She’d pinched it to dust and giggled whilst he bowed. It had taken Erik days to craft each petal, Nadir recalled, and the daroga had marveled at it then, feeling a speck bitter when it was so easily crushed.

If he asked it of Erik now, the Frenchman would gladly carve a thousand more roses from ice- perhaps until his fingers froze off. But Nadir could not ask him to suffer, could no longer stand it if even the slightest discomfort befell Erik. 

Now the fire burned upon perfectly cut logs, winter chill drifting through the cracks of cottage walls despite Darius’ best efforts to keep it out. The three of them ate together, then, huddled close as they took turns ladling soup. Erik’s left arm shook by his side, his right accustomed to doing all else (if not to a clumsy extent). Nadir poured his soup and coiled his right hand around Erik’s left. If Erik ate with his right hand, then Nadir would eat with his left. This choice mattered little in the end, but Nadir felt it the least he could do. And Darius said nothing of it.

It had been on such a night that Nadir felt bits of grain and sauce in his beard. He could not recall when he’d last groomed it and it had indeed grown to the point of unkemptness. 

“Shall I trim it, Master?” Darius had asked as Nadir curled his fingers through its strands.

“No. I’ll do it myself. You needn’t trouble yourself with things like this anymore.”

The less he asked of Darius, the better. And so, he’d found himself in the washroom some hours later, quite surprised by how much he resembled not his father, but  _ Kaveh,  _ in the mirror. 

“Daroga, can I help?”

Nadir hadn’t invited Erik in, but the Frenchman followed him into the washroom regardless. There was nothing Erik could do save hold the razor in one hand. But Nadir had put his hand around that wrist regardless and brought it to his throat. 

“Around the edges,” he instructed.

“Erik might cut you,” had been the anxious reply.

“So what?”

He hadn’t meant to shave anyway. There was slim chance of Erik slitting his throat if the blade was kept so far from skin. But Nadir sensed the Frenchman’s hesitation with every snip, the razor’s tip near poking flesh whenever he cut too close. And Nadir had feared nothing, not the bite of steel or a slip of hand. Even had he allowed Erik to shave his beard clean off, he would still fear nothing.

Nadir evened out the edges himself, and when the beard was again trimmed- again the neat image he remembered of his jaw- he’d looked to Erik and said, “You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t.”

Could he have said the same thing in Mazandaran? Nadir knew the answer (no), but he said so then, and would never take it back. When Erik had set the razor down, Nadir took his hand and traced those bony fingers up his jaw. At his lips, he let Erik linger, and then they’d bid each other good night.

Something had compelled them apart at the moment, perhaps a shy uncertainty of what was to come. Erik had known Nadir loved him. He did not know Nadir wanted him (and the truth was, Nadir had never wanted anyone before).

But they sat by the fireplace now, Darius having cleared himself into the kitchen with their dirtied bowls. As Darius busied himself, Nadir rubbed his hands together and touched Erik’s. 

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Erik shook his head. But Nadir saw the shivers. He cupped Erik’s hands together and blew into their palms. 

“Is it warmer now?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

Then Nadir released him and fumbling in his pockets, pulled out a little bundle of cloth, no bigger than his thumb. He remembered the merchant’s face, a round old man in a wool hat, whose accent Nadir could not quite catch. But he understood most of what the merchant said- “Do you live up the hill? With Darius?” And he’d, “ah, yes, Darius, my brother.” 

He’d looked over the figurines, whittled wood, and pointed at the one he meant to buy. “Good choice, good choice- my wife spent much time on these little creatures,” the man told him, “is it a gift?” “Yes.” “For whom?” And rather naturally, he’d smiled- for once- and said, “My betrothed.”

“Erik, may I ask a favor of you?” Nadir said, the memories blinked away. 

“Anything, Daroga.”

He put the bundle in Erik’s right hand. “My name is Nadir. From now on, call me nothing else.”

Erik hesitated for a moment, as if adjusting to what he meant. Then, the fire crackling, he said, “All right… Nadir.”

Nadir flicked the cloth aside, unraveling the bundle until a wooden lamb remained. A small bell was carved around its neck and the whittler had taken care to chisel a smile upon its face.

“Happy birthday,” he said softly, Erik looking from the lamb to Nadir.

“Darog- Nadir… it’s not-”

“You said so yourself- you don’t know the date- so it might as well be today.”

Erik clutched the lamb, biting a thin lip. Nadir had no doubt they were thinking the same thing-- Abed had sat with them when he’d last said those words. The boy had been so proud of his marzipan cake, and he’d panicked like a child when that wretched cat jumped into its cream. Cherries, he remembered. And conte (the painted box, they’d left in Tehran, no time to pack a single thing). Most of all, Erik’s laugh-- since that night, Nadir had never seen him happy again, not truly.

“Make a wish?” Nadir offered.

“Last time,” Erik said, a whisper that Nadir strained to hear, “I-”

He did not seem to know if he should speak on, but Nadir waited (as he always would). The fire burned on, tints of orange on them both. And in that moment, Nadir did not see Erik’s face-- he saw the eyes and nothing more. And he already knew what the man would say.

_ “I wished to be loved.” _

And again, Nadir was seized with that familiar ache, a twinge of pain in each word he heard. Had I known, he wished to say, had I known. He put his hand over Erik’s, pressing into the little carved lamb.

Then his lips touched the mouth across, strangely soft as it gave in to Nadir’s kiss. Erik’s lips were less skin than scar, stretched thin and taut, a bump of wound against Nadir. The fire stretched behind them, perhaps between, but all Nadir felt was Erik. Alive. Heart pulsing as his throat bobbed above. Alive. And clutching Nadir’s hand. Alive. And with Nadir, since Nijni-Novgorod, since Tehran and Gawar.

And when Nadir felt their lips part for space, he only breathed and kissed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically after everything they've been through, this is the first time Erik and Nadir actually kissed each other on the lips.
> 
> Thanks for reading and as always, comments and kudos are more than welcome! I'd be lying if I said they didn't water my crops, feed my village, and clear my soul!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments/kudos are more than welcome!
> 
> This was originally going to be part of the previous story but I thought it made more sense to split it up since this is more of an extended epilogue that deals with the aftermath of all the awful things Erik and Nadir went through from stories 1-6. And hopefully, you'll enjoy where it goes!
> 
> Absolutely NONE of this was planned from the start, but here we are.


End file.
